


Struck Down, But Not Destroyed

by Sarcasticles



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, OC-centric, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcasticles/pseuds/Sarcasticles
Summary: After inadvertently betraying Queen Otohime, Jean would have been happy never to see another mermaid again, while all Mifune wanted was to do his duty and be left alone. But when it came to the Queen of Fishman Island, nothing was ever that simple. Set during Otohime's time on Mariejois.





	Struck Down, But Not Destroyed

**Author's Note:**

> Written to help solidify some OCs for Otohime's installment in my (7) Series. I tried to explain what needed explaining, but it will probably make more sense once that story gets fully written. Nevertheless I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

There were some things Mifune would rather not get involved in. One of them was the feud between the Queen of Fishman Island and his masters. He knew the mermaid was trouble from the moment he laid eyes on her, and his suspicions were only confirmed the longer she stayed on the surface.

There were some things, however, that as head slave under Saint Mjsogard’s father Saint Gyro he had no choice _but_ to be involved. So when one of the worst troublemakers under his care had been assigned to Queen Otohime in his master’s idea of a cruel joke Mifune could only shake his head and do as he was told.

To everyone’s surprise, what should have been a disaster turned out to be the exact opposite. No one in their wildest dreams would have guessed that the queen _liked_ mischievous children, and the girl-slave known as Jean was completely taken by their master’s unwanted guest.

This did not sit well with the free men of the Thuban House – the noble-owned mansion where foreign dignitaries stayed while they were in Mariejois. Here the slave trade was an ill-kept secret, hidden just enough so that the visitors from the Grand Line and the Four Blues could claim ignorance when they returned home. This plausible deniability was integral to the continuing of the shaky peace between the Celestial Dragons and nations of the World Government.

Queen Otohime had no interest in maintaining the status quo. Mifune didn’t know what magic she spun to avoid being captured or killed upon arrival, but since the Fisher Tiger incident even the World Nobles were wary of the denizens of the sea. They could not attack her without due cause without sparking war. A few of the smarter Dragons recognized the folly in this, and forbade the rest from openly moving against her.

But the use of cat's paws and pawns were still fair game. With the queen untouchable, the free men working on behalf of Saint Gyro and Saint Mjsogard turned their attention on Jean, ordering her to act as their spy on the Queen of Fishman Island.

Jean, the little fool, refused. Mifune hadn’t been present to stop her from getting herself into trouble, but when she didn’t show up for curfew he had to be informed why. The next morning it was his duty to retrieve what was left.

Mara Dragoniv was the head disciplinarian under Saint Gyro and Mifune’s direct superior. Her family had served the Celestial Dragons for generations – rumor even said that a hundred years ago her family wore the Hoof of the Soaring Dragon, but to say that to her face was a death sentence. She was cruel, hard woman, and fanatically loyal to the Celestial Dragons. Her favored punishment for disobedient slaves was a serum purchased from a doctor in the North Blue. The man had been trying to develop a new form of pain relief, and by accident created a drug that did the exact opposite. Mara compensated him well enough for his failure and his silence.

Mifune wasn’t sure what he would find when he went to collect Jean. She was not the first he’d seen punished by Mara’s pain-inducing serum, but she was by far the youngest. The drug was devastating enough when used against full-grown adults. Jean was only thirteen years old, and small for her age.

His breath hitched when he entered the interrogation chamber. The usual table and chairs had been cleared away, leaving no furniture in the small room. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, dimly illuminating a small figure curled in the middle of the floor. From the doorway Mifune couldn’t tell if she was still breathing.

“Well don’t just stand there,” Mara said, her voice dispassionate and flat. She stood in a shadowy corner, her black hair and dark suit making her nearly invisible. “I expect her to perform her duties as normal.”

Mifune’s eyes widened in surprise, although he had the good sense not to question her orders. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning; the staff usually began their work at half past four. Jean had been assigned to the kitchens before the arrival of Queen Otohime, and was still expected to work there when not attending the queen. There was no way Jean would be ready for the hard labor of the kitchens after a night of pain and torture.

Mara’s cold, black eyes noticed his reaction, and her lips curled into a cruel smile. She knew what she was asking was impossible. She _wanted_ Jean to fail.

It was as good as a death sentence. Mifune felt numb as his feet moved forward of their own accord. He did not particularly like Jean. He’d seen her type time and time again during his years as a slave. The girl had a chip on her shoulder the size of the Red Line, born and bred in the cutthroat world of the Saboady Archipelago. She was loud, brash, and - worst of all - longed for independence.

When Jean was first placed under his care Mifune was sure she wouldn’t last the week. He knew the type – the ones who pushed the boundaries, who caught the attention of the wrong people and were crushed for their temerity. It mattered little to Mifune if they went out in a blaze of glory or pleading for mercy in a puddle of their own terrified piss. Dead was dead, and he had no intention of joining the ranks of those who threw their lives away for nothing.

So, yes, maybe he was a scum-sucking snitch. Maybe he cozied up to the free men to make things a little bit easier for himself. Maybe his fellow slave’s disdain for him was not unfounded.

But, damn it all, just because he was looking out for his own skin first and foremost didn’t mean he wanted anyone else to die. He’d seen enough death already. Sometimes at night his nose was filled with the stench of it. He _tried_ to teach Jean. He _tried_ to warn her what would happen if she didn’t listen. He thought he had been making progress, but then Queen Otohime came along and the Celestial Dragons thought it would be funny to assign her with an untrained slave for a maidservant. Nothing good could have come of that.

“Jean?” Mifune said quietly as he kneeled beside the girl. He didn’t think she was conscious, but at least up close he could see her chest move up and down in ragged, uneven waves. A trail of dried blood was crusted under her nose and down her cheek.

“Jean, you need to wake up,” he said more forcefully, shaking her shoulder. She didn’t stir, and he noticed for the first time how pale she was, the dusting of freckles across her face standing out more prominently than usual under the harsh electric light.

Had the serum done permanent damage? Mifune had seen that before, albeit rarely. The drug was designed to cause pain without any physical stimulus. Mara even claimed because it worked only on the nervous system that the pain was more pure than anything that could ever be inflicted by the instruments favored by other disciplinarians. Because there was no physical injury, death, when it came, was not from blood loss but skyrocketing blood pressure and heart rate. There was little chance of a young, otherwise healthy girl having a heart attack or stroke while being punished for her misdeeds.

The effects on the mind were harder to predict. Some slaves fell into a coma and were culled. Others went mad. More commonly, the affected person would be able to work as normal, but with a glassy deadness in their eyes, more puppet than human being.

Licking his lips nervously, Mifune scooped Jean up into his arms. _She’s too light_ , he thought with some distress as a sharp knee dug into his ribcage. Of course, slaves who talked back were refused meals.

“She’ll be ready to attend to Queen Otohime when she calls for her,” Mifune told Mara, risking a glance at the woman. She paused her work of putting her hypodermic needles back into a black leather bag, a dangerous, predatory stillness settling over her.

“Is that what I told you?” she asked.

“Queen Otohime has been known to ask for her as early as five o’clock,” Mifune said, stretching the truth as far as he dared. “I haven’t had Jean on the morning rotation for two days now.”

“The fish was up till two o’clock enticing the young wretch from Cambia towards her cause,” Mara said, her voice carrying the overtone of a snarl. “She won’t be calling for the little bitch for hours.”

It didn’t surprise Mifune that Mara had been tracking Queen Otohime’s movements, but Gale of Cambia was a queen in her own right, and for Mara to insult another head of state in was unprecedented. Mara’s hatred for the mermaid was overriding her iron self-control, and Mifune knew walking on dangerous ground.

“If you want me to have Jean ready for the early morning shift, I will,” he said as respectfully as he could, “but I must ask, is that a risk we can take? Queen Otohime is a slippery devil. She’ll find any excuse to sully the Celestial Dragon’s credibility if she thinks it will help in her negotiations. I don’t want to tarnish the good name of my master, even if the accusations are nothing but empty bluster from an overgrown goldfish.”

“You think the fish would purposefully ask for the slave earlier than expected, and use her failure as a bargaining chip?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Mifune said. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine as Mara’s expression turned murderous. He wondered if she’d considered how Queen Otohime would react when she found that her favorite slave had been punished. Maybe she thought the mermaid was too stupid to notice.

“Very well,” Mara said finally. “I leave it to your discretion. But the slave _will_ work today. Failure to do so is to be reported to me immediately.”  

Mifune bowed as deeply as possible while holding Jean. “As you command.”

* * *

Jean was drifting. She remembered when she was small, before her mother had addled her brains with drink and dope and still loved her. She had taken Jean to the giant roots of the mangrove forest and taught her how to float on her back in the water. Jean remembered relaxing completely, tilting her head back until her ears were under water, and for the first time in her life she’d known what quiet sounded like.

The black void that surrounded Jean now felt like that. This was a safe place away from Mara Dragoniv and the fire that burned Jean from the inside out. Yet there was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that if she let it, the nothingness would swallow her whole and drown her on dry ground.

Jean wondered if that would be such a bad thing. There was no pain here, of body or heart. If she could just lose herself she was sure no one would be able to find her again.

She’d be free.

She felt herself letting go, though what she’d been holding onto in the first place Jean didn’t know. She was slipping, descending further into the darkness and not looking back. Away, away, away from the pain and the loss…

Drifting away.

A wave crashed over her without warning. Jean gasped at the sudden cold and jolted upright. The movement wrenched her away from the blissful numbness. The fire was back, and she wanted to scream, but all that she could do was cough.

“Thank the gods.”

At first Jean didn’t register who was talking. She doubled over and clutched sore ribs as a harsh, hacking cough shuddered through her body. Water dripped off her cheeks, too much to be tears. Someone had thrown a bucket of water over her.

The light was too bright and it hurt her eyes. Her ears pounded and her head throbbed and every time she took a gasping breath she thought her lungs were going to burst. Everything she felt, she felt one hundred times more than normal, her senses on overdrive from the drug Mara had shot into her arm.

Jean gasped as the memory of the previous night hit her like a ton of bricks. It caught in her throat, and she let out a strangled noise of despair. She’d _told._

The sob made her cough harder. She’d told. She’d betrayed Queen Otohime’s kindness, the only she’d known in as long as she could remember. The Queen of the Sea had promised to free her if she’d just be good, but Jean had ruined that.

 _Stupid, worthless girl!_ The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like her mother. Jean had ruined that, too, and Mother had sold her into slavery for her failure.

Jean didn’t have the energy to cry. She curled in on herself after the coughing finally ended, shame and self-loathing cutting deeper than anything Mara had done. Phantom pains shot through her body with every ginger movement, and for the first time in her life Jean wished she were dead.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me again.” Jean flinched as rough hands shook her forcibly. At first her addled mind didn’t recognize the speaker. A primal terror rippled through the layers of wretched misery. What more could Mara possibly want from her? Jean had told everything she’d known and more, spouting whatever nonsense that came to mind just to make it stop.

“You need to stand up,” the voice said harshly. A man’s voice, familiar in timber if not in tone.

“M’fune?” Jean mumbled. Her throat was hoarse from screaming, her mouth like it was stuck full of cotton.

“You’re expected to serve the queen her breakfast. You need to get up, _now.”_

Jean couldn’t imagine mustering the strength to sit up, let alone face the woman she’d betrayed. She shook her head, and immediately regretted it as the motion sent a fresh paroxysm of agony through her body. She couldn’t bite back a low moan in time.

 _You deserve this._ This time it was Mara who spoke. They were words the disciplinarian had oft-repeated as she plunged a fresh needle into the exposed vein on the inside of Jean’s elbow. Jean didn’t remember how many times they’d repeated to process. The drug itself did not last long, but it didn’t have to be effective.

There was a grunt of displeasure from Mifune. Jean heard him move away from her, and there was the sound of a running tap. She only realized what he was doing a second before it happened, and couldn’t jerk up in time before he dumped a second bucket of water over her head.

The water was ice-cold. The shock overrode the pain for a few blissful seconds, but the sudden movement from lying to sitting was almost too much for her body to bear. The fire still ghosted through her veins, punishing Jean long after Mara was gone.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jean gasped. They were the only words her clumsy tongue could manage. Jean made a feeble attempt to stand, but her stomach rolled in protest and she had to sit back down.

“I know you are,” Mifune said quietly. “But that does not change the fact that Mara has decided that you must work, and I am to make sure you do.”

“I can’t.”

“You must, or you will be killed.”

Jean wanted to cry, but of course she couldn’t. Good slaves didn’t cry. A good slave did as she was told eagerly and without complaint. They were like Mifune, who Jean was sure would have killed her himself for all the trouble she’d caused if he were allowed.

Mifune was a good slave, and at that moment Jean hated him for it.

“Like you care.” Her weakness took the venom out of the words, more pathetic than angry.

“Do you think I would have drug you here at the crack of dawn if I hadn’t?” The head slave grabbed her again, fingers digging into her shoulders. Somehow this new pain helped cut through the web of confusion. It was real. _Mifune_ was real. That didn’t make what he asked any less impossible, but at least Jean could fight back.

“Look at where you are,” Mifune said, interrupting Jean’s argument before she could even begin. “Listen to what I’m telling you: You must go to the queen. You’ll let them win otherwise.”

Jean had no idea what she was talking about. She squinted through bleary eyes at her surroundings, then blinked in surprise. The cot she sat on was pushed against the wall of a small narrow room. There was a tap for water and a chamber pot to piss in and not much else, but it was a room. A _private_ room, not the overcrowded barracks where she usually slept, nor the busy kitchen where she usually worked.

A den-den mushi recorded their every move. Jean eyed it warily. “This is your place? You couldn’t bargain for anything better?” She’d always imagined him living in cozy luxury while the rest of them suffered. There wasn’t enough space to swing a dead cat, let alone live.

“It’s best not to get greedy. Makes you look ungrateful,” Mifune said, though the corner of his lips twitched in amusement. His grip on Jean relaxed, and the lines in his face deepened. He looked old and tired. “Can you stand?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“You must.”

That was the third time he’d said that, and Jean had yet to obey. Mara Dragoniv would hurt her for such insolence, and everyone knew she had Mifune wrapped around her little finger. Jean gave the tiniest of nods, gathering every last scrap of strength.

It hurt. It hurt so much to stand. Jean stumbled against Mifune as her knees gave out. “I can’t,” she gasped.

“You must.”

Jean sobbed in frustration and pain. White-hot knives stabbed her feet with each step. The muscles in her back spasmed and her knees gave out again. This time Mifune wasn’t able to catch her in time, and Jean collapsed onto the unforgiving concrete floor.    

The tears came faster now. Jean wondered how she had any left after the horrors of the night. In the stories that the singers and tale-tellers told, crying was done with grace and dignity, enhancing the beauty of the heroine or spurning a gallant hero into action.

Jean hadn’t believed in heroes for a long time, and when she cried it was an ugly thing. She felt her cheeks flush with mortification and shame at her weakness. Mifune towered over her, and Jean had to hide her face from the disappointment in his hard brown eyes.

“Get up.”

“I can’t!” Jean shouted, her voice raspy and thick with emotion. “I hate you, you stupid bastard! W-why didja take me h-here anyway? I just want to die. It’s what you want, innit?”

There was a soft sigh from Mifune, and he crouched down on his haunches. “I brought you here because that’s what Queen Otohime would have wanted,” he said so quietly Jean almost didn’t hear over the sound of her ragged breathing. “Hate me all you want. Gods know I deserve it and worse, but don’t think I want you dead.”

“Wha…?”

“For once in your life, will you shut up and listen?” Mifune said sharply. “The queen seems to think you have a brain in your head, although I’m not convinced. Prove me wrong. Prove me wrong, just like you’ve proved everyone else wrong before. Don’t tell me I’ve risked my skin for nothing.”

Jean didn’t understand. Everyone knew Mifune was craven, something Jean had learned firsthand when he caught her stealing an extra share of bread her first week as a slave.

She’d received ten lashes for that, administered by Mifune himself. Everyone said she’d gotten off lightly. If it had been Mara who caught her…

Jean uncovered her face and looked beyond Mifune’s shoulder, where the little den-den mushi hung in the corner. She couldn’t see a speaker, and with Mifune’s back turned to the thing the disciplinarians wouldn’t be able to read his lips.

There was no way they would be able to have this conversation in the barracks, not with so many ears all around. Mifune wasn’t the only snitch among Saint Gyro’s slaves, and Jean knew more than a few who would have killed the head slave themselves, if only to take his place.

Whose side was he on? Jean scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and regarded Mifune with suspicion. But she didn’t say anything.

His smile was grim. “Good girl. Now stand up. Mara doesn’t think you’ll be able to work, and if you prove her right then she wins.”

Mifune reached down and grabbed Jean under the arm and helped her stagger back to her feet. It still was torture, but either she was getting used to the pain or it was fading. After a few unsteady seconds, Mifune let go, and Jean was able to support her own weight. Water dripped off the end of her nose, her hair and clothes plastered to her skin from his rude awakening.

“I-I need t' change,” Jean said. She could hardly believe the words even as she spoke, and looked at Mifune helplessly. She was so confused, so lost. How was she supposed to face the queen like this?

“I have a spare set of clothes for you. Do you think you can handle it on your own?”

The question brought a fresh wave of mortification. “I…I don’t think so.”

Mifune nodded curtly and helped Jean sit. A fresh change of the rough spun cotton uniform was pulled out from underneath the cot. Jean remembered how stupid she’d thought them back when she was first sold, but the dyed red material hid all manner of things from the guests of the Thuban House.

With quick, efficient motions Jean was stripped of her soiled shirt and pants – she had not worn underclothes since what she’d been sold in wore out, for Saint Gyro did not provide them. She couldn’t muster the energy to cover herself, and despite his reputation as a coward Mifune was well-regarded among Saint Gyro’s female slaves. His eyes and hands stayed focused on the task at hand, and wearily Jean changed into the fresh linens.

The stabbing pains were fading into a deep ache that settled into her bones, with exhaustion taking its place. Jean was half asleep as Mifune tugged the crimson shirt over her head. A sudden jolt shot up her arm when the material touched the inside of her right arm.

“What the hell?” Jean yelped.

“Damn it. I’m sorry, Jean,” Mifune said. “I was trying not to touch it.”

Jean’s eyebrows knit together and she looked to see what he was talking about. Her vein stuck out as a harsh red cord at the inside of her elbow, the surrounding area inflamed and swollen.

“That’s where she stuck me,” Jean said numbly. Her stomach rolled just looking at the mark.

“I know,” Mifune said quietly. “It will be tender for a time, but eventually it will fade.”

“You know?” Jean asked. “You know what she done to me?”

Mifune’s lips pursed into a nearly invisible line. It was a look Jean had seen plenty of times before, usually before he told her off for doing something wrong, but this time he didn’t yell.

“You’re not the first Mara’s taken, and you’ll not be the last. It’s my job to clean up what’s left.”

“Is that all this is t' you? A _job?”_ Jean demanded.

“No, it’s my life. And it’s yours, unless you keep fighting and they kill you for it.” Mifune ran his hand over his forehead. “That’s why we can’t let her win. Do you understand, Jean?”

At first Jean thought he was talking about Queen Otohime. He had served Mara and her ilk for so long, and his words were broken and bitter. But if that was so, why not just come out and say it? There was no way Mifune would get into trouble if he told Jean to continue sabotaging the mermaid’s mission outright.

Unless he wasn’t talking about Queen Otohime, and he was scared that someone would overhear him even in the relative privacy of his own room.

It was too hard to think, and in the end it didn’t matter. Jean had betrayed Queen Otohime already. She had failed, and been punished for it. “I can’t do it,” Jean said, her tone dangerously close to begging. “She’ll hate me.”

“Do you think she’ll be any happier if you just disappear?” Mifune retorted. “What do you think would happen then?”

Jean’s heart sank. Maybe the queen would forget about the insignificant little slaved who attended to her morning needs, but Jean didn’t think so. Her gut instinct told her that Queen Otohime would ask questions and demand answers. She would dig and dig and dig until she was killed for it.

“It is not a slave’s duty to question,” Mifune said, repeating the oft-quoted words of the House. “You must remember who you are, who _she_ is.” He pressed a comb into Jean’s hands.

“Get ready, Jean, and do your duty,” he said quietly. “We owe her that much.”

“And then what?” Jean said, her voice cracking.

“That’s not for us to decide.”

* * *

Mifune watched as Jean did her best to pull herself together. She was a resilient little bastard, stronger than most men twice her size. He didn’t tell her that she’d burst a blood vessel in her eye, dying the white of her sclera dark red, or that her skin still had a ghastly grey pallor to it. Mifune showed no pity and offered no mercy. He doubted Jean would have accepted either.

She moved with an automation-like stiffness, favoring her left arm to her right. Each movement was clumsy and threatened to send her tumbling back to the ground. Mifune didn’t tell her that, either.

Her gaze was vacant, her voice rasping and weak. But to Mifune’s disbelief Jean was able to walk under her own power to the kitchens to prepare Queen Otohime’s breakfast tray.

Maybe the mermaid was right about her after all. Mifune didn’t know if Jean understood his message, but despite Mara Dragoniv’s best efforts she hadn’t broken. Not yet, at least. No one’s endurance lasted forever, and if the disciplinarians weren’t able to corral her spirit they’d settle with a bullet to the head.

Against his better judgement, Mifune found himself hoping it didn’t come to that. He’d learned long ago that hope wasn’t worth his spit, and what happened to Jean had no effect on him. Not as long as he kept playing it safe.

It occurred to him that Mara might kill Jean anyway for the sheer audacity of it all. If it came to that Mifune didn’t want to get involved. It would be hard to send the girl to her death after she’d mustered the strength to survive this long.

With a sigh, Mifune pushed those unpleasant thoughts from his mind and started towards the dining hall. He’d done all he could for Jean, and there was work to be done.


End file.
